Gayboy, Interrupted

The ramblings of a middle aged man (who can no longer call himself a boy really). My views on life, love and some of my writing (which is all under copyright, would be thieves!). The world needs to know my views, obviously.

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

Three years since my last blog post? Oops. I blinked and
missed that one passing by. No new excuses apart from that I’ve been a bit
busy, a bit lazy and a bit distracted and the usual random clichés about time
passing and all that.

I’ll do a quick update. It’s a bit like one of those
American series where they say “Previously on…” in a deep voice then regale you
with a recap from the last seven seasons.

I bought a flat in
London

In my twenties I had recurrent anxiety attacks that I’d
never own a property, wouldn’t have any capital or pension and would end up old
and alone and living in a grotty council flat in a tower block with a bizarre
set of neighbours who played loud music and urinated through my letter box.
Fast forward twenty years and I’ve paid an obscene amount for an ex-council
flat in London. I could have bought a three bed detached house back in the
Midlands for the price I paid for this flat. It’s actually quite lovely too and
not in a grimy tower block. It’s in a conservation area on a tree lined
Edwardian street. It was built in 1951 over a hole left by a bomb in The Blitz.
We’re twenty minutes from Charing Cross by train (an all important stat in
London).

It was a bit of a hole when we moved in. There was a hideous
smell of fried fish and the kitchen had a carpet that defied all rules of
science and was simultaneously slippy and sticky. After months of scrubbing,
bleaching and painting it’s not looking too terrible and apart from a dicky
boiler that needs careful coaxing; things are good. We’ve even got our own
garden that we’ve hacked into a semblance of order.

The neighbours have yet to urinate through my letter-box but
give it time.

I bought a poodle

They’re the third cleverest breed of dog, according to some
dodgy research. Mine is wise and sly. She can outwit Paul and I and has uncanny
powers of anticipation and deduction. She’s destined for fame and (completely
unprompted by us) walked across the kitchen floor on her hind legs one day. I
feel that a tutu, a flaming hoop and a rousing soundtrack are needed (for the
poodle, not for me). The circus beckons us. I also now know the names of all
the poodle trims and am a complete poodle bore.

I bought a lot of
theatre tickets

I’m still obsessed by theatre and pour all my spare cash
into seeing plays. I also won a competition to be a public panel member for a
year for a well-known West End theatre awards. This was a great experience with
up sides (I saw some amazing plays, met some lovely and interesting people and
broadened my knowledge of theatre). There were also unexpected down sides (I
saw some terrible plays, I met someone who I found unbearable and had to be
polite to and I spent time in the torturous bench seats at The Globe). The
awards process was somewhat bizarre too. I’m also still reviewing plays, still
telling people to shut the fuck up for talking and still have a creaky back and
dodgy knees from spending too much time slumped in uncomfortable seats.

I bought some
alcohol, diazepam and a lot of cigarettes

The emotional distress of moving house twice, moving jobs
twice and leaving behind my friends took a minor toll. I ended up having some
issues with anxiety again and fell back into having destructive drinking benders
and messed up a little. I smoked a lot, paid to see a private psychiatrist who
charged me a lot of money and gave me boxes of benzodiazepines to chomp on.
I’ve ditched the shrink, I’m back off the booze and pills and have regained
some equilibrium again. Let’s not mention the ciggies for now, though.

I didn’t buy a ring

Paul and I are still together five and half years down the
line and we’re happy sometimes, irritable occasionally and very nonchalant at
others. The whole wedding thing isn’t for me currently. My views may change but
I’d rather get taken Up West than down the aisle. I’m not one for a fuss and
I’m waiting till we need a new set of pans or for my ancient toaster to give up
the ghost before we think about all that.

Three years in summary but naturally I have a lot of tales
to tell and plan to divulge a few. Maybe next week, next month or next year.
I’m not promising a thing.

Friday, 13 September 2013

I’ve been pretty slack of late when it comes to blogging. I
have no excuses. I’ve just fallen out of the habit of posting. I’ll mark my
work in red pen with “Must try harder”.

As it’s starting to feel decidedly autumnal, I feel it’s
about time we all snuggled up with the central heating up high and a pile of
good books. Maybe the odd leaf kicky, squirrel observing walk would be good
too.

Here are my recommendations for the best books that I’ve
read recently.

1)Sea
Change by Joanna Rossiter

This is a novel that examines the tricky
business of human relations and displacement. In the 1970s Alice has just got
married to her boyfriend during a prolonged holiday in India and wakes up the
day after her wedding to find that the village she is staying in has been hit
by a tsunami and her husband is missing. Her mother, Violet, with whom she has
a brittle relationship, is shown back in the 1940s when she has to leave the
village, which is the entirety of her world, when the Ministry of Defence take
over her home to utilise for army training exercises.

Rossiter handles difficult concepts and the
end result is a very astute reflection on emotion and longing that is written
in a poetic but very readable style.

2)Beautiful
Ruins by Jess Walter

In 1962 in a small island village in Italy
a frail young actress arrives by boat and makes a remarkable impression on a
young man. She is in exile from the set of the Burton/Taylor epic “Cleopatra”
and is apparently dying. The book flits between 1960s Italy and present day
Hollywood.

This novel is actually wryly amusing as
well as being moving, evocative and atmospheric. The book is part satire, part reflection on love and unrequited desire. It’s well worth the effort to
read this engrossing book.

3)Londoners
by Craig Taylor

Craig Taylor spent several years
interviewing hundreds of people who live in the capital. This book is akin to
the war time mass observation tales where a snapshot of people’s lives were
recorded for social research purposes. It’s actually a really compelling read
and I devoured this in a couple of sittings. Taylor interviews a huge array of
characters including a Tower of London beefeater, a dominatrix, city traders, the woman
who is the voice of the underground, a bewildered tourist etc. What results is
a very revealing and at times hilarious book.

4)Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls by David Sedaris

If you aren’t familiar with impish David Sedaris
then you definitely need to get yourself down to the nearest bookshop and get
the whole back catalogue. American humourist, Sedaris, is an incredibly funny
man. This book of essays is a dangerous book to read on public transport, as
people will stare at you as you sit chuckling at inappropriate moments.

5) The
Greatcoat by Helen Dunmore

Hammer Horror has commissioned a number of
famous authors to pen horror/ghost stories. Dunmore has come up with a stunning
tale of a woman adrift in post war Britain who is haunted by a dashing airman.
It’s a dark and sinister tale that made me feel jumpy and enveloped me in the
creepy and mournful scenario. Dunmore is a writer at her peak. It’s a short
read (a novella in fact) and one that you’ll probably swallow whole.

Sunday, 28 July 2013

I'm trying to be leaner. I don't mean slimmer, more taut or fitter. I'm quite happy as I am if it means I can carry on sitting down a lot. I mean that I'm meaner.

I've recently moved house and my expenses have rocketed out of all control. The cost of moving hasn't just been on my mental health but has hit my pocket quite hard too. My savings have been battered out of existence.

In a spirit of trying to rationalise my finances, I've been loitering round the reduced bread section in the supermarket in the early evening, buying unbranded products and taking my own lunch to work. I'm not exactly poverty stricken but my thoughts are that the less I spend on food then the more I can spend on clothes, DVDs and books. I can eat like a pauper and attend the theatre and the ballet like an aristocrat.

Last week I went a step too far though. I decided to go for a cheap haircut. I'd spotted an unusual looking establishment on the bus to work which advertised 'Any haircut: £5!". I decided that as I was passing I'd give it a go. My hair style isn't complex, just short with a side parting and a bit of grading. What could go wrong? Why do I need to spend £20 or £30?

I walked in, sat down on the grimy plastic sofa and instantly regretted my rash decision. Firstly, it was warm and I was liable to stick to the cheap sofa. Secondly: the pictures on the walls threw me into a state of panic. Displayed on the walls was a picture of Gareth Gates circa 'Pop Idol' with his ridiculous spikes, a fair few thugs sporting mullets and some interesting shaved patterns on the heads of what looked the inmates of a young offenders institute. I was considering leaving when a squat Turkish man frogmarched me into a chair.

"Wha you wan?'

"Well, I like the sideburns trimmed to a number two with clippers and up the sides I like a...."

Before I finished with my admittedly slightly pedantic requests he grabbed a set of clippers and ran them up the side of my head, ensuring there was no going back. I decided to go with it. I felt I'd reached a point where I had no other option. I was certain I was going to leave there looking like some odd 90s throwback or someone with a rare medical condition.

He pushed my head forward and down, in a way reminiscent of a gay porno. He planted his palm on my face and pushed me sideways one way, then the other way. I felt like I was in a wrestling match. He reached for a huge razor and flicked off a used blade into a dirt speckled glass and deftly slotted in a blade and started shaving round my neck and sideburns at an alarming speed. I wondered just how new the new blade was and considered the fact that Hepatitis B is prevalent in the Borough where I live. I nervously waited for the nick, reassuring myself that like any sensible gay man, I'm vaccinated against Hepatitis B. This reassured me till I remembered about Hepatitis C which there's no vaccine for.

There were no cuts, luckily, but there was a liberal amount of water sprayed onto my head and face. Within less than 10 minutes he'd done and grabbed the gown off me, holding out his hand for the fiver. Where was the drying of my soaking hair, the showing me the back for approval (I hate that bit actually, I'm 42. No 42 year old wants to see the thinning bit at the back of his head) or the basic pleasantries?

I staggered out of the shop, water dripping down my face, razor burn smarting on my neck and a rising sense of horror at what my hair would look like once I got home. You may or may not be surprised to learn that actually my hair looks great. It's the best cut I've had in ages. Who needs niceties? Its a fiver. I think I'll remain prudent for a while longer. I'll be back there in a month. Stale bread anyone?

I can remember being fascinated by Danny LaRue. I was a child of six and sat transfixed in front of the TV at this strange looking lady who was actually a man.

I accepted it as a commonplace, ordinary thing and a totally acceptable lifestyle choice. It was on the TV after all. My main ambition was to grow up to be Wonder Woman but growing up to be a drag queen seemed a close second. Of course, I now realise that I could have combined the two options, although my knees are a bit knobbly for satin tights.

I experimented with my mother's make-up as a teenager and quite liked how strangely androgynous I looked in a full face of badly applied slap. I didn't graduate any further and resisted trying on her clothes. This was for no other reason apart from the fact that she had terrible taste in frocks. It was the 80s; everyone had terrible taste in everything. As I grew older I became seduced by the Goth culture and by androgynous gender defying singers. It was the perfect excuse for black nail polish and the odd touch of ghostly pale make-up to make me look like a resurrected corpse. I never considered dragging up though. My drag queen ambitions of early childhood went out of the window and with the advent of puberty and the masses of body hair that accompanied this, i just couldn't have afforded the razors anyway.

As I got older and ventured onto the gay scene, I grew to love a bit of classy drag. I adored David Dale, Lily Savage and Lizzy Drip with their witty repartee and clever routines. I even liked the tacky acts with their cheap innuendo and their caterwauling along to 'It Should Have Been Me' whilst wearing an ill fitting yellowing wedding dress and swinging a dildo. I'd watch the drag queens and think: 'I could do that!' This ill placed confidence in my abilities surfaces whenever I watch any kind of show, whether its a trapeze artist, frenetic tap dancer, ballet or a heartfelt Shakespearean performance; I always think that given a couple of hours tuition I could master that too. I suppose that's the mark of a skilled performer; making it look easy.

I didn't drag up until I was in my late 30s that is very late for a gay, I suspect. Straight men drag up even earlier. They grab every chance they can to pull on a bra and wriggle into a frock, whether it’s pub-crawls, stag nights or just the night the wife is out. My first outing in drag was not at all glamorous. I decided to go as Barbara Woodhouse. For those too young to recall, she was a famous dog breeder who appeared on TV being brusque in tweeds and yanking on poor little pooches leads. I thought it would be absolutely hilarious to tweed up and have a toy dog on elastic that I could vigorously yank around whilst shouting 'Walkies!'

Finding the clothes was a nightmare. I trawled the charity shops and eventually found a tweed two-piece in one shop. I asked to try it on, explaining it was for fancy dress. The woman shouted down the shop: "Enid! Can you get the changing room key? This man wants to try a skirt on. He's going to dress as a transvestite.'

It didn't fit. All I could find in my size was an array of foul frumpy dresses. I thought laterally. Which celebrity looked frumpy? I went as Susan Boyle. There was no depilation involved. One cheap wig, sturdy court shoes and a nylon dress plus a pair of stick on eyebrows and a handlebar moustache and I was SuBo.

My next attempt was a little bit more glamorous. I went to an 80s themed party. As you may have guessed, I loathe the 80s and call it the decade that taste forgot. I really did not want to wear the hideous fashions that make me shudder and recall my unhappy childhood. Again I thought laterally. I wanted a cheap outfit and wanted to go as someone or something I liked. I fired up YouTube and watched Debbie Harry singing along to Atomic in a bin bag. My outfit was born.

The bin bag proved a bit sweaty and the huge blonde wig was heavy. Worst of all was the heels. I almost broke my neck in the heels. I think I may stick to my brogues for now and leave the dragging up to those who have the gene of utter fabulousness. I seem to only have half of that gene.

My partner and I
made a rare sortie into a central London gay bar the other evening, on our way
to see a play. He was craving a cool pint of beer and the nearest decent bar
just happened to be one where the more stylish boys hang out. I’m pretty
accustomed to gay bars and am a jaded pub goer, having launched myself on the
gay scene at a slightly scandalous 16 years old but my partner has never really
partaken in the scene much at all, being a much later starter and having lived
in more rural areas. It sometimes takes an outsider to spot something and
pinpoint a factor that you take for granted.

My partner
noticed the constant staring. Being slightly vain, he loved it. Its normal
practice in a gay bar to be appraised and I don’t even notice this anymore. The
quick look up and down, the sideways glance and the full on full body scan are
all perils that you face when entering a bar. It’s habitual, standard practice
and is done without thinking and with no terrible breach of etiquette. In fact,
it is the etiquette. I wouldn’t even think it rude were someone to look down
pointedly at my crotch to see what I was packing or to perform a lengthy
examination of my buttocks. It’s just the way of the gay. It often ends in
dismissal (I’m with a partner, I’m over 40 and therefore unavailable/decrepit
and not necessarily worth the effort) but can end in a brief eye contact, a
mutual appraisal or a mutual disdain.

We talked about
it and I explained the code of practice in a gay bar to my partner. I explained
that it’s often meaningless; that gay men appraise men, just as straight men
appraise women and it’s as much a habit as biting your nails or chewing gum.

I have a
thousand sneaky ways of looking attractive men up and down in the street.
Lechery has to be a skilful art at times. There’s the brief sideways glance at
a hot businessman on the tube, over the top of a paperback novel. The window
reflection study of a scantily clad hottie in shorts on the top deck of a bus
is a classic manoeuvre. The distracted ‘just casually looking around but my
eyes have accidentally taken in the lycra cyclist with the muscles and I’ve
noted that he appears to have a massive penis’ is a very retro one which is
easy to perfect, provided you can feign the right level of nonchalance.

Let the Starey
Marys stare in the bars. It’s not at all intimidating unless you let it be so
and is actually, quite flattering should their facial expression register a
glimmer of approval or lust. If they dismiss or grimace, then just let it amuse
you. They clearly have no class or taste or you’re just in the wrong bar.

I made an embarrassing revelation recently about my shameless quest to save cash and how I had a £5 haircut that was like total carnage. Recently, I upgraded and went for a £10 haircut. I’ve not only upped but have doubled my ante.

I was feeling slightly sticky after a brisk stroll from work. The weather was hot and stark and I couldn’t face the bus with its heaters constantly blasting out in spite of the 30-degree heat. Walking felt like the better option. Every bus journey of late has left me on the brink of throwing up in the aisle. I stopped off by the station near where we live at a light and airy barbers which looked clean and vaguely stylish. Being greeted by a hot six-foot bloke in his early 30s with olive skin and good arms made me forget the sweat pooling in my crevices.

He was a talkative barber. I never know which is worse: the surly ones who ignore you or the prattling ones you have to make an effort with. This one was entertaining and to be honest, he had such a handsome face that I really couldn’t have cared if he read out the cricket scores. I’m a fool for a swarthy man brandishing tools (or scissors).

He began the snipping and was actually very nifty. My eyes occasionally noted his handiwork although I must admit that he did appear to have what looked like a small mammal nestling in the front of his trousers that drew my eye. I started to feel very warm indeed under the cape type thing.

“I am from Turkey! I am living here one year and I practice my English. Do you mind me practice talk?”

“I’d love it!’ I exclaimed with a smile, like he’d just offered me a winning lottery ticket.

We began to make small talk and I tried hard not to look at the ageing pink thing in the mirror that was being groomed by this Adonis.

“Is very hot in Turkey. Is hot here too, no? For Irish man like you is bad when you are very pink.”
I wasn’t offended. Irish is fine with me. They have great writers there and the drinking culture is great.

“Is also very bad in the day. Turkish people sleep from perhaps 12 till 5. Is 42 degrees there today. For a man like you is very hard to go outside when he has a patch of…what is the saying!...on his head. What is it I say?’

“Bald patch?” I replied, instantly feeling just a little more humiliated.

He nodded vigorously: “Yes! Big bald patch!’

I smiled coquettishly in spite of dying a little inside.

We carried on like this for a while: me getting pinker, him getting more unfeasibly handsome in spite of his casual lack of tact in front of this aging red faced sweat machine: “You have very hairy neck! Do any barber tell you that you have very hairy neck?”

I decided there and then. I’d rather he’d spoken to me in Turkish. I wouldn’t have understood a word, but in my mind he’d have been telling me how beautiful I am and how he wished the men of Turkey were so fair and ravishing.

As it was: it cost me ten quid, I got to glance sideways at a hot man with what looked a massive schlong in his slacks and my hair looks great. Everyone is a winner but my poor pride. I’ll be back for more in a month.

Thursday, 13 June 2013

I was
standing outside yesterday (having a sneaky cigarette, naturally) when a flock
of parakeets flew past me. I thought I was hallucinating for a moment. I'm not
in the Tropics but in South East London. Then I remembered, there are colonies
of parakeets all over London. The urban myths are that they originate from a
pair released by Jimmi Hendrix or that they escaped from Pinewood Studios
during the filming of The African Queen. I prefer the latter explanation and
like to think that these parakeets may be descended from a celebrity bird who
perhaps had his stomach tickled by the steely Katherine Hepburn.

This is the
kind of nature I like. Nature that's close to a 24 hour shop, is in a grimy
urban environment and in a place where there's full reception on my mobile.
It's much safer that way.

Every
morning a heron flies past my flat at about 7am. He's huge, like a creature
from pre-historic times. He glides over the courtyard at the back of my flat
and I assume he's on his way to work. I think he may be a commuter. He works
long hours though. I've seen him returning at 7pm. He needs to get on to the
ornithological union about his terms and conditions.

Two minutes
walk from us is a little park which is the grounds of an old manor house. The
lake is a water bird reserve and contains a variety of newborns at the moment.
There are goslings with dense yellow fluff, clumsy little moor hens and a group
of miniscule ducklings. These bring out the inner child in me and I can stand
and watch them for ages. There's a sign by the lake advising against over
feeding the birds and this sign is a picture of a huge rat. This brings out the
inner panicked housewife in me. I want to find the nearest chair, jump on and
tie the bottoms of my trousers up.

An article
in last week's Time Out London did the same to me too. I never respond well to
pictures of people holding up over sized dead rodents. I would have mounted the
seat for ankle protection and screamed (a perfectly normal response to even the
mention of a rat) but I thought that the other people on the train to Charing
Cross might think I was odd.

At the
weekend I saw a crow attacking a pigeon, pulling chunks of flesh out of its
wing. It was a malevolent beast, mean and brooding yet beautiful with it's
shiny black plumage; like a pantomime villain. This reminds me of my love/hate
relationship with the natural world and why I don't watch wildlife
documentaries. I always end up horrified by the expression on the little animal's
faces as they get eaten alive by lions and I end up perturbed. Why can't they
all be vegetarians? I suppose you just can't get good quality Quorn antelopes
in the Serengeti.

Yesterday I
saw a dead fox. He was laid out on the window ledge of a big Edwardian house.
He was magnificent and would have looked like he was just sleeping were it not
for the little trickle of blood pooled around his mouth and the bone jutting
out of his back leg. I squirmed a little at the sight but not at the corpse. I
was more perplexed and disturbed as to why someone would have placed him on the
window ledge. Surely a window ledge isn't the ideal place to lay out a corpse?
I'd hate to be that resident when they opened to the curtains. I'm not good
with road kill.

The local
high street on the way to work is a minefield too. As a child I hated visits to
the local market in the Midlands town where we lived. There were always rows of
dead rabbits hanging up and my father would show his usual sensitivity by
singing 'Bright Eyes': the theme from Watership Down to me. The local high
street has stalls with 'boiling chickens' hanging by their feet. These are
plucked chickens with their heads still on but with jagged knife wounds through
their scrawny throats. I'm not tempted by them.

As a child
our house was a place that lacked safety from dead animals too. My father knew
a man who knew a man who would provide him with game. I would skip into the
pantry only to confronted by a pheasant or a wood pigeon or a rabbit hanging by
its feet. One time, memorably, I screamed to see a massive white goose hanging
by its webbed feet. I suppose I should count myself lucky to have never walked
in to find a deer hanging by its hooves.

I know its all part of the natural
plan. The weak and soft get killed by the predators or the hazards. I don't
have to try to like it though, do I? I think for now I'll stick to admiring
nature in parks and stick to my humus and lentils. It's safer that way.

About Me

I lived in the East Midlands most of my life but finally managed to escape and moved to London in 2013.
I've got a brilliant circle of good friends who keep me going through the turbulence of life and my numerous relationships (I've had more than Liz Taylor but drank slightly less alcohol and taken a few less pills). I've now got a fantastic partner who makes me very happy. I totally love my job as a nurse specialist and it almost keeps me out of trouble.
I often feel like I'm living in a very surreal epsiode of Tales of The City or a particularly grisly John Waters film! Anything else just ask...I'll tell you anything. I'm like that.